Queen's Sacrifice
by femalegamer
Summary: In chess, it is sometimes necessary for a player to sacrifice their queen to achieve victory. Fifteen years after the Blight, Queen Elissa considers a similar choice.


_Peace demands the most heroic labor and the most difficult __**sacrifice**__. It demands greater heroism than war. It demands greater fidelity to the truth and a much more perfect purity of conscience. – _Thomas Merton

She inhaled deeply of the smells of clean horses and fresh hay, ignoring any other aromas that went with them. They were good, strong, living smells. She was alone, hiding in these secondary stables, used for the large slow-moving carriage horses. Most of them had been turned out to a field this morning. The few remaining animals lazily stood in the summer heat, the stillness broken by the occasional swishing tail or stomped hoof.

Despite the heat, she was wearing her oldest armor, armor that had belonged to her mother. That had startled her, that long ago day. Not so much that her mother was a warrior, though that was odd enough, but that Elissa had gone her entire life without knowing; she had heard about her father fighting alongside Arl Bryland (and that scum-sucker Howe), but no one had mentioned any glorious tales of mother. Sometimes it made her wonder what had happened to her mother in the war. The armor was worn leather, heavy and utterly without enchantment. She had worn magic plate armor that weighed less, by the end of the war with the Blight.

Non-magical, did she say? Perhaps that was wrong, because sometimes she thought it held faint whiffs of her mother's scent, a mixture of perfume, the soap she had used and the herbs kept with her clothing. Surely it was her imagination, with the woman dead over fifteen years. How she wished her mother was here now, to talk to..! Or… perhaps not. It was just as well that she could speak without her mother being able to respond.

"Mother, I finally got married, you know. To the king of Ferelden. You would like him, I think, his blend of politeness and chivalry, alongside the humor," she commented idly, swinging her booted heels in the empty air.

Her mother had described her as a wild child; others had called her a tomboy. "Full of life", her Nan had said before lecturing her on the behavior of a proper noblewoman, even one who was only a young girl. She refused to be tamed, though. She insisted on the weapon training, alongside her older brother and Rory, her father's squire.

She hadn't thought of Rory Gilmore in a long time. He had been a good kid, from her current perspective. In some other world, there might have been something between them, but the spark had never been there. He had become her father's squire when he was twelve, so they had grown up side by side. How would the world have been different if he had left with Duncan and her, that night?

"You should see Fergus's daughter, mother. She's been shooting up like a weed this year. She has her mother's curly brown hair, but your eyes. Father's chin. I've been teaching her to ride, but she doesn't seem interested in learning to fight." She brushed her own hair back. It was longer than it had ever been when she was a girl and saw a brush much more often. A sun beam from between two boards of the wall made the few threads of silver shine.

Fergus had bowed to the inevitable and married a few years after the war. There were no Couslands or even Cousland cousins to succeed him, and he refused to let the Teyrnir fall to someone else. His wife was pleasant enough and understood that she would likely never have more than friendship and affection from him. She looked nothing at all like the blond Antivan Oriana.

She had an idea of how her brother must have felt back then. She and Alistair shared a love that inspired tales – and not all of them from Leliana. They had been willing to die for each other. They had been willing to _live_ for each other, no matter what cost to the world would result from Morrigan's rite. Alistair had been the first person to make her laugh after Howe had murdered her family and destroyed her childhood. She had understood about Duncan and helped him through his own family problems.

The pressure had begun in, hmm, the fifth year of their marriage? The nobles had already endured through that long in the past without an heir from Cailan and Anora. She frowned, remembering the letters they had discovered when they returned to Ostagar: Cailan, too, had been under pressure to set aside his childless wife. Anora had been younger than Elissa was now. The worst was, predictably, thrice-cursed Eamon, old hypocrite that he was. She didn't see him divorcing Isolde for a younger woman. Of course, Redcliffe was going to stay in the family, since Teagan and his children stood to inherit.

She had been muttered at by nobles when Alistair was not there. Peasants had sent her all manner of country cures when the problem was new, and spit at her feet and cursed her name when the problem became old.

By now, the pressure on him must be almost unendurable. The common people may not realize it, but along the Ferelden leadership it was common knowledge that the King did not have many years left to him, due to the Taint. Would he father a son (why did they always speak of a son and not a daughter?) before his time ran out, they wondered? If not, who would he chose as heir? There had been several duels in the streets between those who thought themselves rivals to that position.

Despite all of that, she didn't think Alistair would get rid of her. They finished each other's sentences. He wrote her bad poetry, and she brought him exotic cheeses. They sparred together and then fell into bed together. There was no such thing as too much time in each other's company. Perhaps when their relationship was fresh and new and fragile, Alistair could have done it, but not now, when it had put down roots. She had just barely initiated the conversation and been shut down before she could actually say the words.

At the same time, life would not come from death. She sometimes dreamed that the taint oozed through her body, killing it a little at a time. Would she have been willing to drink that cup of death and magic, knowing what she knew now? (What was his name? Jory? Would Duncan have slain the only known heir to the Teyrnir of Highever?) No healing experts among the mages could solve the riddle. The verdict was final: there would no royal heir, not from her.

"I'm sorry I was never the lady you wanted me to be, mother. It's been so difficult, being queen, and "Hero of Ferelden", without being able to ask you for advice. But I remember your lessons about how nobility means making sacrifices for your people. You and father would hold hands and smile sadly and talk about the friends and family you lost in the war with Orlais, then."

She knew precisely what the chaos would likely look like: Like the civil war when Cailan died. Exactly like. How many Fereldens had died then? How many families ripped apart?

She hoped that Alistair would honor her wish, and have the heir the country needed. Only one Ferelden was going to die this time. She had considered less painful ways out, but he needed to know her intent, he needed to know her wishes.

She closed her eyes, preparing to push away from the heavy beam she sat on.

_I love you._


End file.
